


Petals and Stems

by 2blue2berry



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Lives, Fix-It, Fluff, Goats, Language of Flowers, M/M, No tuberculosis, One Shot, they deserved better so i fixed it, they're husbands, they’re too soft for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2blue2berry/pseuds/2blue2berry
Summary: Flowers. A language to man from nature herself. Each blooming and embedded with meaning. Each graced enough to form a sentence, petals building paragraphs. An elegant and delicate dialect that tempted Charles.





	Petals and Stems

**Author's Note:**

> I loved these two and their bond so much in the game I just had to write something ;u; also I refuse to admit Arthur is dead.

Flowers. A language to man from nature herself. Each blooming and embedded with meaning. Each graced enough to form a sentence, petals building paragraphs. An elegant and delicate dialect that tempted Charles. A secret form of communication that can be understood between the few he knew. Of course it was perfect for when a secret code needed, but more so for when his words failed him — especially around a certain shaggy haired cowboy. So he taught himself. Picked up small books that recollected the hidden language that were shoved away in the dusty corners in the nearby general store — untouched and old. The spine of the books almost cracked under pressure, but gentle care wasn’t hard, even with Charles’ strength.

 

When he wasn’t tending to the handful of animal pens and washing up the backyard garden, he could be found slouched against an old birch; it’s white wood ghastly and old. He was determined to study, committing each flower and its meaning to memory. Some were easier to memorize than others, some were so drastically out of place from appearance that it was astounding — who knew an apple bottom meant “preference”? Yet as stubbornly determined as he was, he didn’t quit. Not even after flipping pages several times and reading until his eyes burned. Right. He needed to blink. Blinking was a thing. 

 

The mountain’s sun wasn’t as blistering as the handful of days before, and it was wise to be thankful for it. Summertime carried floral beauties with her, almost every hillside covered in the vast seas of petals. It was late autumn now, but some of the flowers still lay embedded in an earthly home. It was breathtaking when it wasn’t raining or when the sun’s hard rays burned skin. Such beauty was intriguing, like a soft siren’s song luring a sailor. 

 

Setting down the book of flowers, Charles pushed down on his palms against the soft grass and stood up. Urged to test his knowledge on local plants and their meanings, Charles walked down a hillside path to a nearby field he remembers passing by several times from trips into town. They weren’t short trips, so sightseeing and studying the earth below on the long way back was common. 

 

The close-to-noon breeze was welcomed against Charles’ dark skin, coaxing him back into quite vivid memories. 

 

He remembers days like this one at Horseshoe Overlook, remembers the outdoor scent of fresh dew and pollen. It pained when such happy reminders associated with the old outlaw gang. A family made is unfortunates and criminals, get a family nonetheless. Charles was never a part of it for long, not even a year he was, and yet reminiscing felt somber. He had to repeat in his mind, echoing words he once told Arthur, that they were better, healthier, without that pressure. Pressure to run, pressure to listen blindly. Dutch wasn’t in his right mind and it was clear as crystal. A once father figure and having to let him go; Charles couldn’t imagine how it felt. 

 

After aiding the Wapiti tribe in their conflict of greedy intruders and their thirst for obtaining alleged oil on the land and helping them move, the pair traveled north alongside with the natives. And with a small loan and a thorough talk with a local banker, they purchased an acre of mountain land, the empty space soon to be filled with pens of goats and one small personal stable. A few years later and Charles discovered John Marston, a brother bonded through battle, and his family had done the same. They exchanged letters and shared stories occasionally, with few visits per year.  It was nice to live quietly, accompanied by the mountain woodland. It came with a new live, a rebirth. 

 

The stirring, nipping wind brought him back to the present, away from memories and back to the flowers that brushed at his boots. Peering down at the mountain flower, all red with short, but many, petals; a chrysanthemum. A blood red chrysanthemum -- “I love”. Delicately removing the stem from it’s earthy bed, Charles held the flower in his hand. Arthur. A flash of a warm smile from the cowboy came to mind, a smile meant for him and no one else. Continuing on the meadow’s hillside path, grass blades whispering in the breeze, he collected a small bouquet of holly and mistletoe to join his handful of chrysanthemums. The holly -- “Domestic happiness, defense” -- and the white berries of the mistletoe -- “Affection” -- should be enough for a makeshift gift out of the flowers that bloomed in the late autumn (almost winter at this point). Perhaps spring would’ve been a better time to study. Though ‘it’s the thought that counts’, he remembers, and trudges up the hill to return to the house, to Arthur. 

 

In hopes that his husband, although not official, (as official as official can get without a proper church; a ring and a celebration did happen after all) would appreciate the gift, Charles fiddled with his free hand, twisting his ring on the other hand with a thumb and index finger, nervous. Turning the corner to the porch where Arthur usually rested, head and hat down, shadowing his closed eyes, he found no sight of the man. He would’ve notified Charles if he was heading out, so he was still around. One look at Taima’s tired-eyed look was enough to know that Arthur wasn’t by the stables -- Taima was always giddy and soft when Arthur was near.

 

An investigation in the goat pens behind the house led him to finding a slouched shape in a chair, hunching over and studying the goats, head looking up and down to whatever was in his lap. 

 

“Not often I see you watchin’ the goats so closely, Arthur.” Charles leaned against the back of the house, arms behind his back. When Arthur looked back, Charles approached further, almost leaning on the top rail of the oak chair. 

 

“Well I suppose ain’t had much to do. Horses seemed fine an’ I was eager to brush up on some drawin’ skills. She lookin’ fine to you?” He held out his journal, tilting it so Charles could see without craning his neck.

 

It wasn’t like his quick, rushed sketches with stray pencil lines crossing one another, but a well detailed, elegant drawing of one of their pet goats, one they agreed not to sell. They named her Eve; feisty girl she was, all brown with white splotches. 

 

“As talented as ever.” He replied, voice swooning and smooth. “You captured her independence perfectly.”

 

“Independence? She’s downright stubborn! Now, of course I ain’t denyin’ that, but you weren’t the one who got bucked when we first got her. Lil ball of anger, she is!” Arthur let out a cocksure laugh, gruff and wheezy, and closed his journal. He noticed how Charles’ arms folded behind his back, clearly hiding something. They were good at this, quick glances that told short stories. And Charles knew that Arthur was intrigued.

 

“I guessin’ you’ve got somethin’ there behind your back?”

 

“Wouldn’t take a detective to figure that one out.” Charles grinned and chuckled, smile wide and beaming. It takes not even a minute of taking in that handsome face and he felt like he fell in love all over again. He never kept count on how many times he had experienced this feeling in a single day, but it was more than what he had to count with his hands. It’s a blissful and warm feeling in his chest, one that beats and thunders with love.

 

Withdrawing his hands to reveal the makeshift bouquet, Charles held out the group of flowers, petals twirling in his palms from the wind. He felt like he could replay the surprised, but softened look Arthur gave him over and over again, and surely it would be stored in his mind. Blue-green eyes gleaming and  _ happy _ . After a few seconds of silence, Charles let out a breath and began speaking.

 

“They, uh, they all each mean something.” His face felt warm, but he didn’t care, not one bit. 

 

“Mean somethin’? Flowers ‘ave meanings?”

 

His mind came to a stutter until his brain practically yelled, ‘ _ Speak! Don’t go all frozen’ _ , and blinking out of his short daydreaming pulled him out. “Well, yes. They do. The mistletoe? It means ‘affection’. The holly means ‘domestic happiness’ and ‘defense’. And these red flowers, chrysanthemums, mean ‘I love’.” 

 

There it was again. That I-have-fallen-in-love-again feeling warming inside him. His heart was against his ribs, beating like a trapped bird. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to being romantic, but it didn’t come easy to the both of them and took a while.

 

“Charles, did you collect all these for me?” He knows that look. One that was hidden away and only shown for him. One that held him close in an embrace unlike any other. One that whispered, or even shouted, ‘I love you, more than you even know’. 

 

“Of course Arthur.” A man of little words? A statement come true, especially when blushing like a smitten teenage girl. 

 

“Thank you, love… I-- I don’t know what to say. Th-Thank you.. Thank you so much.” Dragged down by a calloused hand and the overwhelming urge, they met in a firm kiss; one chaste, but long. “I love you.” 

 

A whisper followed by another as Charles echoed his loving tone. “I love you too.”


End file.
